CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Secret of the Cave

“What’s going on, Joe?” Sandy demanded. He was rubbing his wrists, trying to get the circulation going again while Joe was busy with the knots that held Mike.

“There’s no time for a long explanation now,” Joe said as he slashed through the last of the ropes. “We’ve got to get out of here and find the others.”

“Those friends of yours seem to want something pretty bad,” Mike said as he rolled over and got back on his feet. “What I don’t get is why they think we can help them.”

“You were taken as hostages,” Joe explained. “They were going to use you to force me into something.”

“Into what?” Sandy wanted to know.

Joe stepped over and put his hand on Sandy’s shoulder. “Look,” he said. “I know I’ve acted badly the last couple of days. I should have told you right from the beginning. But, as I say, it’s a long story and we just don’t have time now. Will you trust me for a little while longer?”

Sandy nodded. “Sure. What’s the next move?”

“To find Hank and Mr. Cook.”

“Do you know where they are?”

Joe shook his head. “No idea.”

Sandy thought for a moment. “They probably went back to the house after we disappeared.”

“That sounds right,” Joe said. He looked up at the sky doubtfully. “But we’ll never make it by dark.”

“Then we’ll travel as far as we can and hide out till dawn.”

Mike snapped his fingers. “I know just the place,” he said. “That cave of ours. The one we fell into.”

“Right!” Sandy nodded.

“What cave?” Joe looked puzzled.

“That’s a long story too,” Sandy replied with a grin. “We’ll tell you on the way.”

They reached the cave with about an hour of daylight to spare. Mike was the first one to pull himself over the lip and into the opening. Then he reached down and helped Joe in.

“Welcome to our humble establishment,” he said, bending over in a deep bow. “You’ll find this the perfect place for an overnight stop. The rooms are spacious and well ventilated. Our rates are reasonable and I’m sure you’ll find the service....” He checked himself when he saw the look on Joe’s face. “What’s the matter?” he said.

“You say this cave was hidden?” Joe asked. His voice sounded oddly hollow. It was clear he was doing his best to hold down a mounting excitement.

“It was, before we knocked away the mountain,” Sandy said.

“How deep is it?”

“We didn’t feel much like exploring the last time we were here.”

“Have you got a flashlight?”

“In my bedroll.”

“Let me have it, please.”

Sandy reached into his blanket and handed over his flashlight. Joe practically snatched it out of his hand and plunged off into the interior of the cave.

“Hey, wait for us!” Mike called.

The cave slanted back at a sharp angle and opened gradually into a large shallow cavern. Sandy stared at the blank wall opposite with a frown of disappointment. “Not very big, is it?” he commented.

But Joe didn’t hear him. He was down on his knees beside a pile of stones near the right-hand wall. “Help me with these,” he called urgently.

Mike and Sandy exchanged puzzled glances and went over to the pile of rocks. Joe was pulling it apart, working with a feverish concentration. Sandy could hear him panting with excitement.

Suddenly there was a hoarse cry as Joe tore away a large flat stone. “Look!” he shouted. The boys leaned over his shoulder and, in the light of the pocket flash, saw what appeared to be a goodsized wooden box. The wood was very old and part of the top had rotted off.

Joe swept the remaining stones out of the way and curled his fingers under the lid. Bracing himself against the floor of the cave, he heaved up with all his strength. There was a sharp tearing noise and the top cracked open.

“There!” said Joe, playing the flashlight down into the box. “That’s what all this has been about.”

Sandy gasped. The chest was full of neatly stacked bars of silver—much of it tarnished with age, but still recognizable.

For a moment nobody was able to speak. Sandy was the first to find his voice.

“Who does it belong to?” he whispered.

“To us,” Joe said firmly. “To all of us.”

“Us?” Sandy cried. “Why?”

“Because you helped me find it. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Sandy started to say something but a familiar sound caught him up short. “Listen!” he said urgently. The others stood still and held their breath. “Do you hear it?” Sandy cried in excitement. “It’s the dogs. I can hear Drum!”

“They must be near the cave!” Mike shouted. The three of them wheeled and sprinted for the entrance, the treasure momentarily forgotten. “They’re getting closer!” Sandy yelled. In a final burst of speed, they scrambled up to the lip of the cave and broke out into the fading sunlight. Down at the bottom of the slope Sandy could see the first of the dogs coming around a turn in the trail. Drum was in the lead.

“Up here!” Sandy shouted, moving down the slope. “We’re up by the cave!” Suddenly he felt himself grabbed from behind and slammed to the ground.

A rifle roared and Sandy heard the angry whine of a bullet as it passed over his head.

“Back inside!” Joe shouted.

Sandy looked up to see three figures coming toward them. “The Crows!” he gasped.

“Right!” Joe muttered as he struggled to his feet. But the first of the Crows was already on top of them. With a last desperate lunge, the Indian covered the remaining distance by throwing himself on Joe. Sandy saw him slash down with his rifle butt and saw Joe duck the blow. Then the two men were rolling on the ground, fighting grimly for possession of the gun.

Sandy barely had time to lean down and grab an apple-sized rock before the other two Indians dove at him. Sandy heaved the rock at one of them, saw it strike him full in the chest, and then whirled to meet the charge of the second. Just as they were about to close, a snarling black-and-tan flash brushed Sandy to one side and fastened on the Indian’s throat. The Crow gave a frightened scream and battled to keep away from the slashing jaws. It was Drum, Hank’s lead dog, who had thrown himself at the Indian. The others in the pack were right behind him.

With a yell of terror, the Indian disappeared under a writhing wave of growling dogs.

“Down, Drum!” came an authoritative voice. Hank Dawson was striding purposefully toward the mass of dogs. He waded into them without fear and grabbed Drum firmly by the scruff of the neck. “Back!” he ordered. Drum shook himself and moved off a few paces, sitting watchfully on his hindquarters, ready to leap at his master’s command. The other dogs of the pack followed his example. The Indian was lying on the ground, his torn hands covering his head.

Sandy glanced around to see how Joe was doing. He had subdued his attacker and was standing to one side, panting heavily, a rifle in his hand. The third Crow was sitting where Sandy’s rock had flattened him, a look of dazed surprise on his face.

“All right now,” Hank Dawson said sternly. “What’s this all about?”